


The Thought of All the Stupid Things I Said

by ahhhhrexa



Series: Happiness is Like a Monosyllable [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drama, FC Barcelona, Football | Soccer, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, M/M, Multi, OT3, OTP Feels, Pain, Temporarily Unrequited Love, no comfort, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 08:43:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10553408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahhhhrexa/pseuds/ahhhhrexa
Summary: “It’s good to be home.” That’s what Pep would have said.He would be happy.The calming cool to his right would smile in acceptance while the soothing heat to his left would make a sound of confirmation.“It’s good to be here.” That’s what he would have said.There he would be with the man he couldn’t ever be without to his right and the man he couldn’t ever leave to his left.All of them in place he couldn’t forget.-A continuation/sequel to When I Ruled the World.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time coming! I've finally written a sequel to When I Ruled the World. 
> 
> I'm proud to release this to the public. Enjoy more of the inner workings of Pep, and his relationship with Lucho and Tito.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was far easier to pull an all-nighter than it was to lie down and delve into the temporary required unconsciousness that was sleep. For the past few years it was getting harder and harder to fall into that place where nothingness could reign. There was all this pent up energy gathering with nowhere to go but inward. Growing pressure dug itself into the hypothalamus causing the neurons to keep on jumping back and forth from one part of the brain to another. The possibility of slumber was slim and almost non-existent.

 

The contact between head and pillow didn’t elicit the signal for some shut-eye when the nighttime came. Rather wisps of repose happened throughout the day. A minute snooze on the team bus, a light nap in an office, or a brief doze on the floor would happen. Nothing was too long or too lasting to properly recover the miles on the body. They all added to minutes rather than hours of supposed relaxation and suspension.

 

The idea of peaceful nods off or sleep appeared to be like a myth. For in those rare occurrences, the spiteful commanding memories of years passed would rise up. No longer hidden in the undertow of the waves of reviewing tactics, the recollection of previous wrongs done and words left unsaid come alive to reveal a monster; one that took shape of faces he loved – _loves_ \- sneering at him and goading him with the shards of the pain he had caused them.

 

I never meant to do them wrong, he thought.

 

But he knew better.

 

Just because he didn’t intend to do harm doesn’t mean he wasn’t incapable of doing harm. The jagged edge of the shards held by the monstrosity that he created pierced him often in those quiet moments. What should have been the release from the trials of the present ended up being the systematic degradation of his psyche, and everything was by design, all carefully constructed through a multitude of mishaps and selfishness.

 

Even into the moments of awareness he didn’t escape the gnawing guilt and the other emotions. He experienced the waking nightmare. While he would be apparently lucky to not be faced with the transgressions of yesterdays, he still had to deal with the torment of today and the uncertainty of tomorrows. Eyes wide open and bags underneath the lids, he would carry on with his time consulting staff, training players, going over tactics, or whatever else to slow the oncoming fearful notes of sorrowful hymns he didn’t intend to compose.

 

At this moment, he was slumped into the corner of his hotel room. Just a few hours ago he had his conversation – _battle_ – with Lucho. The entirety of it lingered in him so much that each replay in his mind was like he was reliving it physically as well as mentally. The burdening cold of Tito’s love – _loss_ \- drenched him inside while the heavy fire of Lucho’s bitterness – _maybe even hate_ – scorched him on the outside.

 

Escape proved nigh impossible from the dueling forces of those he had partnered with.

 

_“I don’t mind taking turns.”_

 

The kiss from Tito that felt like he dived into a pool. He again ruminated over his failure to support his once ailing – _now gone_ \- counterpart. He delivered a low blow that he believed couldn’t be recovered from. He should have just visited or done something to show that he was there. He was just a cab drive away from a visit. Just a pen stroke away from apologizing. A phone call away from admitting his wrongs. He remembered each cool kiss, but no longer did they send him into a winter hideaway. The cold battered against his heat and he wrapped his arms around himself to keep the fire from being put out.

 

_“I would have been okay with sharing.”_

 

The kiss from Lucho that felt like he was sitting in front of a hearth. He pondered over the shadows he had cast over his rugged comate. He set the bar so high that many believed that it would never be reached least of all overtaken. He should have made words of encouragement or something positive. A little speech while handing over the captain’s armband. A little chat while he was Barca B coach. A louder vote of confidence when the first team was taken. He remembered each hot kiss, but no longer did they send him into a warm refuge. The heat clobbered against his fire and he hissed as he willed the flame from losing its strength.

 

_Camelot._

 

Cataluyna still fought for its independence.

 

_Guinevere._

 

Barcelona carried on no matter who loves her.

 

_Lancelot._

 

Tito – the one everyone loved – _loves_ \- and now missed – _misses_.

 

_Mordred._

 

Lucho – a titan who followed no way but his and he conquered where none thought he could.

 

_Arthur._

 

Pep – was once a king, but now just a man.

 

A curious image surfaced through the pestering pictures of wounds. An almost what if scenario had begun to play. There he was at Camp Nou walking on the large green pitch with his arms crossed as the night sky showed off stars and the full moon. On the right side of him was Tito, ever calm, a scarf no longer wrapped around his throat with a smile on his face. To the left side was Lucho, kinetic always, sunglasses unworn with a grin on his face. He walked with them around the pitch twice then they found themselves seated inside their box on the sideline.

 

_“It’s good to be home.” That’s what he would have said._

_He would be happy._

_The calming cool to his right would smile in acceptance while the soothing heat to his left would make a sound of confirmation._

_“It’s good to be here.” That’s what he would have said._

_There he would be with the man he couldn’t ever be without to his right and the man he couldn’t ever leave to his left._

_All of them in place he couldn’t forget._

The image faded as quickly as it had come to him. He strained his mind to keep that created memory, to hide it away in some file where he could look at it fondly, wistfully almost at what could have been. It would be a reminder, one among many, of things that could have come to pass if he had just done better, and been wiser. He would look back on it in the quiet moments, in the dreaded moments, and he would want to cry at what was left behind.

 

But the tears don’t come.

 

Not that they had ever come before.

 

I didn’t cry when he – _you_ – died, he thought.

 

Encountering a death of someone so cherished, he had thought he would break down and cry. But that night, when the phone call came, what happened was something entirely different. Instead of the expected rush of water down his eyes, his face was dry though his lips quivered. He didn’t fall or crumple to the ground nor did he fall upon the surface in anguish. He had just stood there.

 

He had been numb.

 

From that moment on, though sadness clearly in his eyes, and forever inside his soul, the tears never came. It wasn’t as if he was actively repressing those tears. He wanted to cry. He wanted to join in with the others in visibly displaying his grief besides the words he offered and the look he had in his eyes.

 

He knew he should cry because Tito was – _is_ \- many things to him.

 

_Everything._

 

So why didn’t he cry?

 

That was just another check on the list of things he felt guilty for. Oh, how stable and constant failure had been for him! If there was one thing he could count on, it was his ability to spawn neglect. Don’t forget his inability to cry neared the top of the list of lapses and wrongs he had committed. There were also his selfish self-made bouts of fiction that hindered his faculties too.

 

So many mistakes layered on top of all his guilt with his mourning as the core.

 

_“Just don’t belong to memories. You aren’t theirs.”_

 

That was sound advice coming from a man who wasn’t one to give any. As much as he would like to take it and use it to alleviate his sorrow, the words were just that – words. They provided little comfort when they were first heard. No taking of solace was had the hours the past then too. They added extra ammunition to the weapon that was his memories, the ones that ever hound him.

 

He lived under the shadows; he made not all, but in each one, they were strong in their darkness. They weren’t set in stone rather they lived and breathed. They bore such might in their power. They would manipulate and morph around him. They propelled him toward the edge even; let him gaze down into the abyss as he suffocated due to the gaseous affects of his lies.

 

Innumerable were the lies, so much so that some of them were nearly lost to him. Little ones packed a terrible punch. Large ones crammed themselves into spaces that shouldn’t be filled. The acidic taste lingered in his mouth as well as the burning sensation in his throat. A lie out of him was as easy as breathing just as the self-condemnation was as effortless as blinking.

 

The failure of admission to wrongs committed when confronted about them served as further proof to part of his manipulative ways. No one had dared to come up against him about these more than Lucho. The man had the kind of gut that could sense things were off quickly. He may not have the exact reasoning, but he always had his fingers on the tip of the information. His hands seemed to always be able to put a finger on the pulse of it.

 

He was challenged that morning amidst the coming changes in the club. The incoming hand that would push him out was close. Options to disassociate or ignore what was before him occurred. Never more so did he fall into himself when Lucho asked him about his feelings without saying a word. The older man was bare before him. It was in his eyes; so much unfettered hope.

 

He could have said something.

 

Not that saying anything would make things better.

 

I didn’t know what to do with hope, he thought.

 

Withholding information was synonymous with lying to him. He kept the knowledge, pressed it into his chest, and let the truth seep into his body away from the outside world. Like a precious treasure or a dangerous weapon, he hid the answer away because he was scared to say it. If he breathed it out, it would mean accepting it; accepting whatever it was.

 

He had panicked.

 

Being jealous with his formless object, he saw the hope get repressed – _his own or Lucho’s_ – buried within the hard edges of long drawn out turmoil with phantoms. Bearing witness to that kind of recoil sent guilt shooting up from his toes to his spine and straight into his mind. A gnawing headache started and more physical pain followed.

 

He should have been open because Lucho was – _is_ – each thing to him.

 

_Everything._

 

So why did he lie?

 

That was just another rock thrown into the pit of his regrets. Ah, how durable and reliable unfailing deficiencies had been for him! If there was one thing he could know without doubt, it was his aptitude for distorting reality. Don’t push aside his ineffectiveness to tell unvarnished truth as the largest of stones. There were also his roundabout calculations of fables that prohibited his thoughts too.

So many illusions piled on top of his regrets with his gapping flaws at the center.

 

How long would he be there just trapped by the conflicting points of a sword he created?

 

How deep would it go through him as he sat here defenseless with only a pathetic muffled cry to indicate his pain?

 

Backed into a corner with nowhere to go, he sat there still, fighting off the clamoring chill and the brutal swelter with nothing but the occasional whisper, a begging kind of thing, saying, “Please.”

 

_Please._

 

\-----

 

 

 

Walking down the tunnel as the leader of the opposition felt absurd and wrong. It must have been some kind of joke that hadn’t revealed its zinger. Like a sheep dressed as a wolf, clothed to the nines with a killer suit proposing an image of gallantry and tact when in reality there was more insecurity rather than confidence in his steps as he walked down the hallowed stairs.

 

Each step became heavier than the last as the memories of the night before pummeled his senses. The invisible mark of the bite to his throat burned as the words exchanged between him and the one he – loves (it’s a question still) echoed in his ear drums. Each word brought down onto him as part of a stick that hits that drum that called for action. His lips quivered still at the lingering feeling of the other man – **the better man** – _Barca’s man_ on his mouth.

 

Things left unsaid had a way of ramming themselves back into one’s mind. They clawed at the brain, picking up the words and throwing them over and over again like some silly hurtful game. The large fingers dug deep into his memories and mocked him with what could have been said. Words had a way of coming in conception many moments after the initial time of discussion. The words were bullets, misfired and unchecked, they pierced the inside and got lodged there until something found its way out.

 

_“I’m staying.”_

  
How could two words be so beautiful and yet so sad?

 

The answer was in the infrastructure such as the plastered faces of players posing in their blaugrana kits with soft looks depicting their quiet pride of being where they are now. He had stood against those walls many times in the past. He would be there before games whether with a clipboard or water bottle in hand trying to breathe out the pre-match jitters. Various people from players to staff would give him a kind word, always quick never completely solid in delivery.

 

Often there would be a hand on his cheek or his shoulders. A light squeeze to bring him confidence followed by a soft word in their language to bring the fresh wisps of coolness to fly over his sweaty brow. He’d look up to see the softest almond eyes staring back at him; assurance never felt more at home than they did in Tito’s eyes. The waters would wash away whatever hesitations dared to swipe away his fire and he would stand straight, mimicking the other, and smile right back.

 

Unmarked and hardly seen footprints covered the floor and the steps. One trail in particular was of the moment he had raced from the locker room to the tunnel. There was urgency to reach his lifelong friend, to be able to reminisce for a few, before they had to line up and walk onto the pitch. On that occasion, the feet below him slipped and he nearly went over the railing, but luckily, he was caught by strong arms; ones that carried weights other than the gym variety.

 

A bit of color must have touched his cheeks when he had looked up to see Tito looking down on him. That almost pointed nose of his seemed more acute while his lips were twitching almost into a bemused smile. Pep didn’t want to remove himself from the contact, but alas, as was the day where any connection like the one he had felt – _still feels_ – for another man was frowned upon he didn’t listen to his daydreams and pulled away. He could have sworn he had seen a kind of disappointment in Tito’s eyes, but that was never confirmed.

 

You did what I couldn’t do, he thought.

 

Just at the foot of the tunnel, below the steps and just ahead of the pitch he had sat down on that fateful morning. He looked out, bits of the pitch could be seen, and he wondered how it would feel to step out there once last time. Maybe the air would be still while his cule heart beat itself out of his body.

 

He had heard footsteps behind him. There was no need to turn around to check who it was. He already knew that it was Tito. The man’s presence could be more than felt, like instinct and muscle memory, he could just know when the other was near. Despite feeling the depth of uncertainty, he appreciated knowing that Tito was now sitting beside him looking out at the same pitch that they both knew and cherished.

 

He was about to withhold the information until the press conference, but his feet had become cold as if icicles had drilled through his bones. It wouldn’t be fair for Tito to find out from anything else but a personal message. But Pep was scared for his – _something_ – and scared for himself.

 

He was leaving behind his home once again. Shoved out by yet another board that disagreed with his values and were intimidated by his prestige. The vicious cries from the press fueled this action too. All of them plus his weakening body secured the decision for him. He couldn’t stay even though he wanted to. A man can be in the eye of a storm for only so long until it carried him away in the end.

 

He wasn’t just leaving the club behind. No, that was only one part of the great - _escape_ – exit. The flight of freedom would carry him away from his city and out of the country to some far off place where they couldn’t touch him. He’d be only with himself with the weights of the responsibility off of him. All of it would be a relief.

 

But leaving meant being without Tito.

 

That was something he had never thought he would ever do. Tito had been in his life since he was a child, the coolest of presences that stayed him. They grew up together, knew how the other worked, through eating all the food in the Masia cafeteria to their stargazing on top of the hills of Barcelona.

 

Those first years apart from one another had been difficult. There were failed attempts at phone calls. There were letters that didn’t always arrive on time. Old and outdated photos kept in wallets and underneath their pillows. A precious memory of their reunion in the Camp Nou as players where he asked Tito if he was going, and Tito said he was staying.

 

With more reluctance rather than eagerness, he revealed the truth. He had said the words “I’m leaving’ quickly. He felt his heart being squeezed; the constriction gave him pain as he watched the steady rise and fall of Tito’s chest.

 

A small part of him had expected a look of disappointment. Perhaps he could have called for a sharp word, something disparaging or cutting like. But that wasn’t what he had gotten. Rather than the made up stream of fury what he had received was complete understanding. The words he heard and the regard given to him was of complete backing. All of this shouldn’t have been a surprise and yet he had still felt some of it.

 

After a couple of seconds, maybe minutes even, Tito gave him a curious look. He couldn’t read what was in it, but he could feel the impact of that look. Probably in that moment, underneath the skin, deep into his muscles, Pep knew that the estrangement between them had begun. The word ‘break’ popped into his mind for a mere moment, but that was long enough to send shivers down his spine as well as a rumbling to echo through his body.

 

I wish I could have stayed, he thought.

 

Both times he had wished that.

 

The board didn’t want him back then anymore. They felt he had cultivated too much power; more influence in his fingertips than what they deemed was correct. It didn’t matter how much he had meant to everyone in Barcelona. The pull of their greed persuaded them to spark vicious rumors to the press, pay some ultras to chant negativity, even make a player or staff member feel jealousy toward him.

 

He was on his way out.

_Pushed out._

 

The best way to avoid members of the board before they went to their all high and mighty seats he had taken refuge inside the chapel. On this afternoon there was no priest or pastor inside, no believers even kneeling at the pews, nor any sign of stragglers and people escaping the outside with moments inside a supposedly sacred place. Though he believed that the stadium was far holier than the chapel itself he still gave respect to the faith others had in an omnipotent being even though he didn’t bear that kind of belief himself.

 

If there was anything to believe in, it was in his love for the club. It was the way the rolling hills of his country looked underneath the setting sun. It was how his language sounded when sung or when poetry was recited. Reliance came at the way he touched a football. Or at the way someone touched him. His faith was those and nothing else.

 

He had placed himself on the lush carpet floor; let his back lean against the only wall that didn’t have the stain glass windows or the little monuments dedicated to a certain religious figure. All he wanted was peace and quiet, a space away from the in fighting and the crude behavior around him, he just wanted to relax and not think about what had come and what had yet to begin.

 

He had fallen into a rare bit of sleep, lying deep into empty unimportant dreams, before being found by someone. A nudge to his shoulder woke up him, slightly startled him so much that a sound almost fell out of his mouth. It was Lucho, now beside him, looking at him with eyes that could change from one color to another, a peculiar look in them. No words were spoken, no utterance of a sound by either men, but Pep knew that the information he kept so close to his chest was already out.

 

Lucho had known he was leaving.

 

The question of what gave it away did come up in his mind. Could it have been in his eyes? The brown irises of his could have conveyed too much whenever he engaged anyone in conversation. Or maybe it was the way he now walked. His gait might have changed; the footfalls could have been heavier than before. Maybe it could have been his voice. Was there a hitch in there, a pause, or a change in how he pronounces a word in his language?

 

The older man never gave him confirmation nor revealed how he knew. But it was there in his dark eyes, so filled with flashing tints of differing colors, that they burrowed themselves into the fire pit inside of Pep. He felt a wave of danger, the word akin to bitter entered his thoughts, and he felt his hands tremble slightly.

 

With fear rather than bravery, he affirmed what the other man already knew. He said the words “I’m going.” He felt his lungs be pierced, as if them billowing open and closed was now impossible, and his breath couldn’t be caught.

 

He was going away from the club. He was going to run far off into maybe a better a place; a place that wouldn’t try to hurt him or fill him with too much stress. He’d leave his country and his hometown for some place without rumors. He could finally be at ease. No longer would he have to look over his shoulder. He’d be – _hopefully_ – at peace.

 

But going away meant being without Lucho.

 

That was something he thought he would never do. Lucho had come into his life with such blatant force, with eyes that never released him, and a voice that always inflamed him. He didn’t know how he would handle the other man’s absence. Where would he be without Lucho’s teasing? Who would he reach for when he wanted to feel whole? He would be cut in half.

 

Lucho had smiled at him after those fateful words, teeth showing, but his eyes were darker, a kind of rampage happening within them. It looked like the word Pep thought of earlier. It was bitter, almost twisted, and he almost recoiled from the way it pushed into him.

 

_“I’m staying.”_

That’s what Tito had said.

 

That’s what Lucho had said.

 

_How could two words be so beautiful and be so sad at the same time?_

 

\-----

 

Ring.

 

Ring.

 

Ring.

 

After some time dwelling on _Bayern’s_ – his team’s loss, Pep returned to the corner that he spent the night in. He let his back touch parts of the wall, and slid down into the fetal like position he was in. He clutched the phone in his hand, pressed it to his ears, and begged quietly to himself and to a god he didn’t believe in for Lucho to answer the phone.

 

He dialed the man’s number without thinking. The muscles in his fingers remembered the keys so well that the movement from fingertip to keypad was so quick that he didn’t have time to see what he was doing before. When the ringing began, his eyes widened, and he felt like he could have a heart attack in the anticipation and fear.

 

What would I do if you answer? He asked himself.

 

Ring.

 

Ring.

 

Ring.

 

With each ring, doubt had begun to seep into him. He started to shake again and his breathing quickened. He banged the back of his head against the wall as the familiar tingling that came with numbness started in his legs. He remembered the moments where the air itself seemed to suffocate him and the pang of his guilt and regrets resurfaced.

 

This was a mistake, he thought.

 

But the ringing stopped.

 

The only thing he heard on the other end was breathing. It was slow, and steady. It meant that Lucho was there. It meant that the other man was listening. The question was for how long and if he would say something back.

 

Pep gulped.

 

He remembered a time when speaking to Lucho was easier. They would go at each other, back and forth, with such ease. It was always a test thrown at one another. A clever quip in one language would tell one thing. A teasing retort would imply another. Who would submit first? Who would make the other blush first? Who would confound the other first? That was the way it was for them. A battle of wills, fire against fire, and it thrilled them both.

 

It was the complete opposite to how it was with Tito. Conversations between him and his fellow Catalan flowed easily too, like a stream of water. They had more of an easy banter, less based on words and more focused on actions. A subtle glance to the skies would signify one thing. A tongue pressed between teeth would suggest another. Who would speak first? Who would make the other smile first? Who would bewilder the other first? That was the way it was for them. A dance of wills, water against fire, and it excited them both.

 

Things weren’t so simple now.

 

One man was gone – _dead_.

 

The other man was here – _but so far away_.

 

“I should have stayed longer, shouldn’t I?” he finally asked, breaking the silence after it seemed to be ages between when they had last spoke. He recalled the words he told Lucho – and Tito – those many years ago and shivered. He should have stayed.

 

Lucho still doesn’t speak.

 

The only indication that the man wasn’t gone was the slow intake of breath that Lucho made. Pep accepted that it wouldn’t be that easy. No, it would take a long while for them to reach any place of – ease. It hurt to know that, but it was worth a shot to try tonight to make things better. He could make the journey start now.

 

What the journey was going to - Pep didn’t have the courage to even think quietly about.

 

“I wanted to,” he continued. Never in his life has he wanted to make things different than he has now. He could still feel his inside freeze by look in Tito’s eyes. “I wanted to.” The unnerving smile Lucho had that day still burned his insides. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.” It wasn’t worth much, but he hoped Lucho could hear the apology.

 

He was sorry. Sorry for so much besides the night before. He wanted to apologize for how he treated him; how he treated the both of them. He should have stayed. He should have stayed both times. He should have stayed in the hospital with Tito. He should have stayed by Lucho’s side when he asked.

 

So many should haves, and a lot of things he did instead.

 

 _Tito…_ he thought longingly.

 

The very last time he saw Tito alive was in New York. It was only one day. One day that should have been more, but he was stubborn and scared, and trapped in the self-created dramas of his imagination. They spoke only a few words to each other. It was more of them just looking at one another, like they had before, eyes open to the changing of their faces.

 

They had kissed that day.

 

It was soft and it lasted for only a few seconds.

 

He had believed that there would be more of that one day.

 

How wrong I was, he thought sadly.

 

“I couldn’t help but look at you during the game.” Pep admitted. The silence brought him no comfort. He dealt with the loudness of silence for too long already. If this phone call were going to be one-sided that would be fine. He just needs to make sure the quiet takes over. “I couldn’t help it.”

 

Still there was nothing on the other side from Lucho.

 

Pep thought back on their last meeting the other night. His mind went to their kiss. So strong, so heated, their lips on each other gave him such pleasurable sensations. It was addicting, and he felt all that was between them, the break, and the bitterness, the longing in that kiss.

 

It was the first kiss they had between them in such a long time.

 

He couldn’t help but fear that it would be the last kiss.

 

“I’m ready for this.”

 

He paused. More uncertainty gripped him. His lips twitched, stomach felt queasy, and his spine ached. What if this all went wrong? What if he was too late? Did he linger too long in his vivid and unhinged musings that he lost the man that he so – Even now, in the moment of being terrified, he still couldn’t say the word.

 

“I’m ready for us,” he said at last. He pushed out the words with so much effort, even as the sweat rolled down his forehead, even while his hand trembled as he held the phone. He said it. He actually said it.

 

A hard slam occurred.

 

He pulled the phone from his ear at the sharpness of the sound.

 

Lucho had hung up.

 

_Maybe he was ready, but ready too late._

 

\-----

 

Laying on the bed, in the hotel room, the air conditioning on, as the lone candle was lit on the table beside him, Pep was naked and uncovered by blankets. He lay there; eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling above him. He had been like this for past few hours. Sleep once again eluded him. All that could be done was just to be there, open and so ashamed, as time ticked away.

 

He tried calling Lucho again moments after the man hung up on him. He sent texts and emails. Hell, he even went to his social medias to try to contact the Austurian. But it was for naught, for no read signs were made, nor any things came back as a response. Everything just went straight to wherever messages stayed, and all his calls went only toward voice-mail.

 

He was at once too cold and too hot. He turned on the air conditioner to combat the stifling heat, but then he had to light a candle to throw off the rigid cold. With clothes and without clothes, he shivered. He felt too weak to get up and to put on clothes. The ones that he ripped from his body lay scattered on the floor.

 

There wasn’t much that could be done. He had spun the web of misdeeds for too long. The threading was so strong that it had caught him instead of others. He was stuck in the thunderous transgressions. He was a victim to himself and a culprit to others. What he had feared most, what he had tried to run from, it all had to head at this moment.

 

_“Camelot is ours.”_

That didn’t include him.

 

Those three words were for Lucho and Tito. Camelot was theirs, and always had been. They never abandoned her. They never betrayed her. They were strong, a knight and a warrior, crowned by Guinevere, as they led Camelot to more glory with dignity and love. They didn’t bother to be like King Arthur. Instead, they were themselves, and in their way, they eclipsed the man who was king.

 

_“When you’re ready, all that comes with her will yours again too.”_

 

He told Lucho that he was ready. He said the words. He said them without hesitations. That must have meant that he could have meant them. He did mean them. Did he?

 

That was the problem with living in the web of fabrications for so long. He had become used to establishing head canons that were far off from reality. Each differing pebble of hesitations, of selfishness, and of stubbornness created the problem he was dealing with now. In his desperate attempt to protect himself, to cast out the demons that chased and bit at his heels, he pushed aside those that mattered most.

 

In the trappings of what he created, it put obstacles in front of him, and then some. It had begun to be hard to differentiate between what he wanted, what he needed, and what he thought he wanted and needed. He said to Lucho: “I’m ready for us.” But was he speaking about him and Lucho? Could he have been talking about him and Tito?

 

“Tito’s gone,” he whispered. Saying it out loud still hurt. It still wrecked havoc in his spirit. He would always mourn.

 

_Absurd._

 

It wasn’t about that. Then could it have been about him and Barca. Maybe that was it. When it all came down to it, his first love, his only love maybe, was Barcelona. Maybe he said ‘us’ in regards to that.

 

But that didn’t make sense either.

 

For even though there was Barcelona, Tito and Lucho had always been there. They were there to fill the spots that neither club nor country could reach. One man was the water to his fire, and the other was a flame to his flame. They were important. They were something – _everything_.

 

He had just only realized that too late.

 

_Too late._

He said he was ready for us. By us, he meant for him, for Lucho, and for Tito. He meant the three of them. He meant the three of them together. How crazy was that! After years of avoidance, of denial, here it all was out in the open. The truth he thought he had shown to Lucho wasn’t the truth at all. What he done was finally taken in and accepted what he had so long been ignoring.

 

He was ready for them all to be.

 

He had been ready for a long time.

 

A little to late, he thought.

 

_A little too late._

 

The words of one of his favorite poets recited itself in his head:

 

_La felicitat s'assembla a un monosi'llab. Per la seva senzillesa estructural. Tambe', per la brevetat amb qu`e ens visita la boca._

 

He wrapped his arms around himself, turned on his side, and pushed the side of his head deep into the room temperature feeling pillow. He closed his eyes, wishing with all his heart that sleep would take him, and he let out a sob.

 

It was funny.

 

Pep could feel the tears now.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired partly by:
> 
> "Trouble"
> 
> Oh, no, I see  
> A spider web, it's tangled up with me,  
> And I lost my head,  
> The thought of all the stupid things I'd said,
> 
> Oh, no, what's this?  
> A spider web, and I'm caught in the middle,  
> So I turned to run,  
> The thought of all the stupid things I've done,
> 
> And I never meant to cause you trouble,  
> And I never meant to do you wrong,  
> And I, well, if I ever caused you trouble,  
> Oh no, I never meant to do you harm.
> 
> Oh, no, I see  
> A spider web, and it's me in the middle,  
> So I twist and turn,  
> Here am I in my little bubble,  
> Singing out...
> 
> I never meant to cause you trouble,  
> And I never meant to do you wrong,  
> And I, well, if I ever caused you trouble,  
> Oh, no, I never meant to do you harm.
> 
> They spun a web for me,  
> They spun a web for me,  
> They spun a web for me. 
> 
> \----
> 
> The poem is from the Catalan poet Gemma Gorga and it translates to:
> 
> “Happiness is like a monosyllable. Because of its structural simplicity. and also because of the brevity with which it visits our mouths.”
> 
> Find me on tumblr: luchorgasm
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed! Feel free to leave a comment or a kudo or both! 
> 
> Until the next installment!


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